


toe socks

by dmdiane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, On Saturday evening, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Soft Smut Sunday, Sweet/Hot, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-06 23:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15206213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: Greg loves coming home. When Greg makes it home from work, he finds Mycroft mid-workout.Not betaed or Brit-picked. Simply wrote it and posted.





	toe socks

Faint strains of tenors and strings lead Greg directly upstairs after he’s shed his overcoat and shoes in the foyer. Ten steps up, two at a time, he marvels at the reality of finding any kind of opera, even Duetto, comforting. Round the landing and ten steps up, two at a time. But, it’s damn nice way to arrive home at the end of the day.

After growing up in state care, his ex-wife’s habit of sarcasm at the door seemed welcoming evidence that at least someone gave a shit where he was. The silence of his bachelor flat after the divorce was nothing more than a bolt hole. Not in his wildest dreams did anything ever prepared him to come home to comfort. The last tension of a busy day melts off his shoulders. Miracle.

For all his life’s regrets, and they are many, Greg never regrets Mycroft. This thing between them may’ve been late in coming, but they may’ve needed all that life behind them to make this work so wonderfully well. Yeah, he wanted kids and if they’d met earlier perhaps that could've been a thing. And yeah, he would loved to been able to deal with the man’s truly atrocious parents when it might’ve helped. And yeah, they can be grumpy guys who live for duty, Eeyore and Owl at the edge of the party. The unexpected security of their affection took a lot of getting used to. But all in all, he so damn happy he can’t wish a thing different. He rounds the corner of the hall and shrugs off his suit jacket.

Well… every now and then, like right this minute, his absolute twink of a husband is so twinkly that he deeply regrets not knowing him when he was in his twenties. _He must’ve been adorable_. Greg’s trajectory towards calling out a greeting and hanging up his jacket is arrested. He leans in the doorway. In the space between their bed and dressing area, Mycroft holds half moon pose. His body is a tantalizing collection of sleek lines and angles, muscle and sinew corded in harmony. He wears Greg’s oldest, most ragged, City of London cadet corp t-shirt in all its faded glory over a pair of stretchy yoga pants and toe socks. The breath halts in Greg’s chest. He is mid-way through his daily stretching and balance routine. Greg sometimes teases that had times been what they are now, or if he’d been born in Russia, Mycroft would’ve been a ballerino. He has that maniacal focus and more than enough physical grace. Think Nureyev, not Baryshnikov. Perhaps Bruhn. As it stands, this is something very precious few have ever seen. Maybe no one. Greg would bet that when Mycroft works with their trainer, or with Anthea, there is nary a toe sock in sight. His heart clamors at the sight.

Greg lets his gaze travel the delicious length of his lover one more time before he settles it on the floor and clears his throat. Mycroft’s self-consciousness, he calls it self-awareness, is acute. Blatant ogling is not welcome.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” Mycroft moves slowly through some kind of side stretch into a relaxed recline on the mat, smile wide and inviting.

 _No kidding_ . “Reza has the washers going downstairs.” _And you have the music fairly loud up here_. Greg shrugs and crosses the room, tosses the jacket on the bed. “M’sorry I’m late.” He loosens his tie. “Have you run?”

“No. Join me?”

“Maybe.”

Mycroft raises his brows. “Maybe?”

Greg drops his tie on the bed and opens the top three buttons of his shirt before sinking to the mat beside Mycroft and leaning for a kiss. More than a greeting, the kiss spirals deep. Greg frames Mycroft’s face with a hand and holds him close. Mycroft’s smile shifts into something soft and delighted. Greg kisses him again, fondness and admiration folding straight over into desire.

“What on earth were you thinking on the way home?” Mycroft asks.

“Wondering if you’d run yet.” Greg kisses his chin. “Whether we were gonna cook or call out for dinner.” He trails several open mouthed kisses down Mycroft’s neck. He spans a hand up under the t-shirt to settle at Mycroft’s breastbone. “Then I got here.” He kisses a collarbone and licks along its length. He gathers Mycroft’s shoulders with his free arm and tilts, the momentum carrying them both flat to the mat. He catches Mycroft’s knee and lifts until he can cup his ankle and run a finger inside the sock. “Then I saw these.” He plucks at the soft material. “You will be the death of me, love.” _In the best way._

“You. I.” Mycroft swallows, caught up in Greg’s regard, thoughts already fuzzing with the pleasure. “My socks.” HIs brows loft up in delicate confusion.

 _Your everything._ “Your toes.” Greg sighs. “Your legs.” He nuzzles along Mycroft’s shoulder, pushing aside the worn cotton with his nose. “Your everything.”

Greg feels the precise moment that Mycroft stops trying to calculate what’s happening and gives in. Accepts. Opens. He arches on a groan of pleasure and anticipation, presses his hardness into the curve between hip and leg.

“Gregory.”

 _Oh yeah, right there_ , a very particular hum. Strong legs wrap around his thighs, broad hands at his shoulders. Oh fuck. Greg wants. Plain and simple, just wants. “Myc?”

“Mmmm?” With ease, Mycroft leverages them over and sits on him.

“Make love to me, baby. Make me yours.”

The flicker of a brow.

“Please.”

A tiny smile.

Nimble fingers peel Greg from his trousers and pants while Mycroft scoots away from Greg’s grasp. He sucks in air. While Greg is a total switch, Mycroft prefers to bottom. It was nearly two years before they discovered that if Greg asked Mycroft loved undoing him. It was another year before Greg figured out how and when to ask. Mycroft’s mouth slides around his cockhead and coherent thoughts dissolve. He murmurs encouragement and nonsense until he feels Myc’s hand between his cheeks and has an errant appreciation that Myc deduced the lube in his pocket. His chuckle breaks on a sigh when a long dexterous finger winds into him, caressing and beguiling. His legs part and knees draw up, he rocks down onto the blessed pressure and _nnnnnngggghhhh christ that’s good_ . Mycroft laughs and the vibration around his cock is just heavenly. He won’t last. Another finger slithers along beside the first and both thrust, massaging over his prostate and showering stars through his entire body. _Gaaaaahhhhhh_. “Baby, please.” He can only whisper. “Myc, please.”

The heat of Mycroft’s mouth withdraws and Greg can grab onto some control. He can also get hold of the magic stretchy need-to-touch-you-now yoga trousers that hide nothing of his lover’s plush bottom or erect cock. He rolls the fabric down past Myc’s thighs and slips a hand between them to stroke, long and firm. Even his cock is elegant, warm chamois skin over steel desire. Mycroft’s head goes back and a long soft susurrous of breath hisses out. Greg grips the strong arch of ribs above him, pliant and beautiful.

“C’mere gorgeous.” He coaxes, drawing Myc down again into a sloppy greedy kiss. They can make this perfect for both of them. He rolls them again and Mycroft croons approval. Greg straddles Myc’s hips and lowers himself onto him and Mycroft lifts his knees and opens them just so, cradling Greg where they can rock together slick and easy. When they find a rhythm Greg’s thoughts fuse on a path to completion. He takes himself in hand and reaches back to find an ankle, and yes, a sock, still on a long flexing foot. It is more than he can take, he comes on a roar of pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, sparks of silver and white clearing out his body and mind. Mycroft’s hand joins his and he is aware of Mycroft’s orgasm peaking, hips stuttering under him, the loss of rhythm, a collapse into afterglow. He folds down into Mycroft’s embrace.

Mycroft folds him close and murmurs something near his ear he doesn’t so much hear as feel, passion and praise trickle into him. He begins to pull himself together slowly, cuddled in Myc’s arms. Myc reorients much faster than he does and he savors the feeling of hands stroking down his back, grounding him.

“Love you, baby. So much.” He’s finally able to sprinkle kisses on Myc’s chest in some kind of organized and freckle related fashion. “Thank you for this.”

Mycroft chuffs a protest. “I wish you wouldn’t thank me for sex.”

“Love, ‘m grateful for every damn thing about you. About us. You know that.”  _Gonna always tell you everything. You need to hear everything._

“But.”

Greg cuts him off with a kiss. “You know you are too.” He purrs.  _You love me so much there are toe socks to see._

“I am.” Mycroft allows. His eyes are the color of storm clouds, pupils still slightly blown, pink dusts his cheekbones. “Of course I am. But you don’t have to keep saying it.”

“I do. Never want to take anything for granted. S’important.” It took fifty-three years for him to understand that his home is a person, not a place. Is this man. Is precious. “Most important thing.”

“Greg. I…” Mycroft hesitates. Another thing few are allowed to witness.

Greg’s grin is wide and insufferable. “You don’t need to say.”  _I feel you love me. I know you trust me._ He's been done with ever letting Myc's doubts go unchallenged for two years.  

Mycroft purses his lips with frustration. “I do love you. Even when I don’t bring myself to say it all the time.”

“You managed just then very well.” Greg kisses his nose and is rewarded with a scrunched up expression of discomfort that’s nearly as adorable as the toe socks. Nearly.


End file.
